


Not Marriage Material

by voxangelus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, there there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/pseuds/voxangelus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another of John's relationships goes awry. Sherlock, surprisingly, offers comfort in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Marriage Material

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme 27 fill for previous_one. Beta'd by lovely swissmarg.

Sherlock is standing at the window with his violin when John returns home. From John's hunched shoulders, fast pace, and scowling expression, it is obvious something went wrong on his date. Shame. John had been seeing this one for quite some months, and she was less irritating than Jeanette, even if she wasn't as clever as Sarah. It occurs to Sherlock that tea would not be amiss, and he flips the switch on the kettle and sets out two mugs and the teapot just as John stomps up the stairs, throws his coat on the couch, and sits down heavily in his chair with a groan. 

"Tea in a moment. Water's just about to boil," Sherlock calls, poking his head around the kitchen door-frame. 

John looks up, scrubbing both hands through his short-cropped hair. "Ta. Might need it. Sodding women, I don't even know why I try."

"You like women. Isn't that reason enough?" Sherlock asks, measuring Darjeeling into the teapot and adding hot water. 

"Not when they're bloody two-timing me, it's not," John grumps. "Eight months of dates, mini-breaks, dinners, long walks, vague talks about the future, and she's been having it on with another man the entire time." He glances over at Sherlock as he carries the tea tray to the side table. "And no clever remarks from you on how you saw it coming, if you please!" 

Sherlock merely nods, pouring milk into John's mug and adding tea and a spoonful of sugar. "John, I met her twice. I can tell you where she grew up, her birth order, her parents' professions, the secondary school she went to, how many A-levels she managed, and her favourite perfume, but contrary to your undying faith in my genius, I cannot tell from a cursory glance at a live person that she's a serial adulteress," he explains, stirring the tea and handing it over to John. "I suspected she was hiding something the last time you brought her round, but that's all. And I didn't figure you'd want to hear it." 

John accepts the mug, staring into the milky depths for a few minutes before answering. When he finally looks up, his eyes are wet. "I don't expect you to understand. I thought we might have had a future together. Anna, well, she was everything I wanted in a woman. To think she was capable of this kind of betrayal is a shock. She just brought it up over dinner, casual as you please, after she ordered the bloody langoustines. She's going to marry the other bloke. Oh, she said it was 'fun while it lasted', but I'm not 'marriage material'." 

"Nonsense. You're a doctor. Don't all women want to marry doctors?" Sherlock asks, settling into his own chair with his mug. 

"Damn you, Sherlock, don't make me smile. I'm good and hacked off and I don't want to be derailed," John growls, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.

Hiding his smirk behind his tea, Sherlock leans forward a bit. "Mummy always said the same thing to me whenever I did something mischievous. 'I've got a good mad on now, Sherlock Holmes, don't you make me lose it!' There were so many times she had to laugh into a pillow. Drove Mycroft round the twist since he could never get that sort of a reaction out of her," he said with a smirk. 

"I can imagine you were just as much a terror then as you are now," John admits. "God, this is awful. I don't even know if I was the 'other man' or if he was. It's bloody ridiculous. Better to know now, I suppose, before I went and did something stupid like think about proposing or cohabiting," he sighs, setting his tea aside and looking at the carpet. "Jesus, I need a hug," he mutters.

Sherlock hastily sets his tea aside, scoots forward in his chair, and opens his arms. "Well, come on, then."

John quirks an eyebrow. "Have you been possessed?"

"No," Sherlock replies, shaking his head. "You're my friend. You're sad. You need a hug, so I would like to assist you."

John makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he launches himself into Sherlock's arms, wrapping himself around his friend and leaning his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, breath shuddering. Sherlock, for his part, holds John close, one hand stroking up and down his back in a comforting fashion. Sherlock's not really sure what to say, so he just murmurs, "There, there." After a few minutes, John relaxes and his breathing slows, even though he's still leaning at a strange angle against Sherlock in the chair. 

Sherlock has become fascinated with watching John's carotid artery pulse in his exposed neck, and before he can stop himself, before he can even think of what he's about to do and what the consequences might be, he lowers his head and presses a kiss to the pulse point, his tongue darting out for a complete sample, the taste of John's soap, his skin, his sweat mingling on the tip of Sherlock's tongue as he presses it flat against John's neck, humming in satisfaction. John tastes just as Sherlock thought he might, if he could admit to ever thinking such a thing. 

John stiffens for a fraction of a second, thinking he should move away, but the merest touch of Sherlock's tongue on his neck feels a thousand times more amazing than sex with Anna ever did. Then he's sliding into Sherlock's lap with a moan, tilting his chin upward to allow Sherlock better access to the rest of his neck, should that be what he wants. 

Sherlock has a fleeting thought that he might be out of his depth now, but his arms and lap and all his senses are full of John and although he never knew he wanted this, everything that came before seems to pale in comparison. He kisses and licks his way along John's jawline, pausing just a moment before covering John's lips with his own. 

John slides his hands up and into Sherlock's tousled curls, drawing his full lower lip between his teeth and suckling gently. Something in the back of his mind protests, something about rebounding, and awkward next mornings, and I'm-not-gay, but John ignores it. He never would have wasted so much time on trying to date women if he had realised that he was Sherlock-oriented sooner, because there is nothing he can compare this to, and then Sherlock's hand is slipping down his chest and into his trousers and all John can think is, "God, yes, finally," as he bucks his hips into Sherlock's touch, marvelling at how right Sherlock's hand feels wrapped around his cock. He can tell it's not going to take much, and four or five strokes later he's spilling in his pants like an untried teenager, panting for breath on the lap of his extraordinary flatmate. 

Their kisses turn languid as John comes down from his climax, Sherlock's hand still in John's trousers. Sherlock pulls away slightly and opens his mouth to speak, but John interrupts him. "By god, if you are going to say anything, it had better be 'why in hell did we not do this sooner' or 'come to bed and ravish me'. I don't want to hear any variant of 'sorry' or 'it was an experiment' or anything like that. I can only take so much emotional angst in one evening.”

Sherlock tilts his head back and laughs, a deep chuckle that reverberates through John like a passing freight train. "Come to bed so we can ravish each other," he rumbles, tilting his head in for another kiss.


End file.
